


Bruises

by theprinceschamberlain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 04:11:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6640960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprinceschamberlain/pseuds/theprinceschamberlain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's only recently been discovered that there's a meaning behind the random bruises that inexplicably show up on you - turns out it's your soulmate receiving bruises, whether self-inflicted or otherwise. </p><p>Dean's soulmate seems to be a little bit of a clutz, but the constant black eyes and the hand-shaped bruises that keep showing up on his arms make him think there's more to it than just his soulmate tripping over their own feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruises

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I've written anything now that I have a job. I miss it. 
> 
>  
> 
> Inspired by the [soulmate au](http://deanjimmy.co.vu/post/140753775187/okay-but-like-what-if-those-random-bruises-that) I thought up a while back. It's a lot more hurt/comfort-y than I originally intended. 
> 
>  
> 
> also i think i sort of intended for the "other" that cas is with to be bartholomew but it's not specified so you can insert whoever you condsider to be a big enough asshat to fill the role lol

“Oh, Dean, baby, are you alright?”

Dean looks up at the sound of his mother’s voice, recognizing that worried tone. He frowns, glancing around him as if the answer to her question can be found in the Legos he’s stacking together with Sammy. Sammy just blinks a couple times before getting back to the Legos, unconcerned.

“I’m fine, Momma,” he says, confused. “Why?”

Mary comes over from where she’s making lunch at the counter – turkey sandwiches with lots of lettuce and tomato, and apple slices instead of potato chips (because she says they should eat healthier, ugh) – kneeling down and taking his arm. He looks with her, seeing the black-purple spot on his elbow, nearly the size of a tennis ball.

“Did you run into something, sweetie?” she asks, fingers hovering over the bruise. “Does it hurt?”

Dean pokes at it, but it doesn’t throb like a bruise normally does. “I don’t think I ran into anything. And it doesn’t hurt. I don’t know where it came from.”

Her brow stays pinched for a moment longer before she sighs and stands. “Well, okay. But you let me know if it starts hurting, okay?”

“Okay, Momma,” Dean promises, and he goes back to the Legos while she goes back to making lunch.

The bruise is mostly forgotten, and over the next week, it fades to yellow and then goes away completely, apparently having healed. Dean doesn’t worry about it.

 

 

When Dean gets home from school, he tosses his backpack by his chair at the kitchen table and goes to the fridge, rummaging around for the leftover chicken enchiladas Kate made for dinner the night before. He lets out a triumphant “hah!” when he finds them, putting two on a plate and sticking the plate in the microwave for a couple minutes to reheat.

He hears the front door open again, along with the sound of plastic bags being shuffled around and Kate on the phone. The microwave beeps a few seconds later, and he pulls his food out and sets it on the table to go help his stepmom bring in the groceries.

“Hey, Mom,” he greets, taking a couple bags. She hums a response, distracted by her phone, before doing a double take and nearly dropping the rest of the bags.

“I’m sorry, I’m going to have to call you back,” she says into the phone, and hangs up. Dean raises an eyebrow, frozen to the spot as she immediately rushes to him and takes his face in her hands. “Dean, what happened?”

“What do you mean?” Dean doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

Kate frowns, fingers lightly tracing around his eye. “What do I mean? I _mean_ this black eye you’re sporting.” She leans back, expression warring between concern and anger. “Are you getting into fights at school?”

Dean leans back, bewildered. “What? No!”

“Dean Michael—”

“I’m _not_ , Mom!” he insists, rolling his eyes. “I go to class and do my work and then I come home! No one bugs me or tries to start shit or anything! It’s almost kinda boring, actually.”

Kate doesn’t look impressed at his attempt at a joke, but she seems to accept he’s telling the truth. The worry comes back in full force. “Then how did you get this?”

Dean frowns, putting down the bag of groceries he’d taken and jogs to the bathroom. He flicks the light, listening to the buzz as it comes on, and then—

“What the hell?”

Dean leans over the sink, eyes wide as he takes in the dark purple bruise around his right eye. It’s almost shiny beneath the fluorescent light of the bathroom, and he gently prods at it with a finger. There isn’t any pain, no phantom throbbing, not even any swelling. Just a big bruise now around his eye.

Well. That explains the concerned looks he was getting from other students on his way out of school today.

Dean heads back out to the kitchen to eat, not knowing what else to make of the random bruising showing up on him. He sits in his chair, pulling the enchiladas close, and digging in as Kate goes about putting up the groceries. Both Sammy and Adam have near the same reactions when they get home, and John nearly heads back out to let out some of his righteous anger on an unsuspecting soul before they calm him down.

It’s not the last time Dean comes home with a black eye that’s not his, and Dean can’t help but wonder what kind of sick joke this is.

 

 

College life is pretty fun, Dean thinks.

This is the fourth party he’s been to in as many weeks, and he’s only a freshman. The punch is definitely spiked, other, less-disguised alcohol flowing from cup to cup, and bodies grind together to the heavy bass thumping through the frat house. Short skirts, low-cut tops, tanned and sweaty skin— and Dean can’t get enough.

He lets his hips sway as he makes his way through the crowd, spiked punch in hand. He welcomes each press of a warm body that bumps into him, grinding and moving to the music, hands roaming and enjoying himself. He smirks at a petite blonde that’s eyeing him up, her plump bosom practically falling out of her shirt and her Daisy Dukes showing off legs that go on for miles, and he shoots a wink at the dark-haired guy that gropes his ass, arms corded in muscle and stubble that he knows would leave the best kind of burn on his thighs, but doesn’t make a move yet, instead heading for the snack table. It’s practically a choose your own adventure tonight, and he wants to see all his options before he makes his choice.

Jo finds him next to the punch bowl a few hours later, eyeing up everything that comes to refill their cup. She snorts when he gives her an exaggerated eyebrow waggle, punching him on the shoulder.

“Save it for someone who’ll put out, Winchester,” she says.

Dean snorts, taking a sip of his punch and smacking his lips at the burn of it down his throat. “You’re just jealous that I’ve basically got my pick of the crop tonight, Harvelle.”

“Not all of us are that desperate, jackass.”

Dean just smirks, turning back to scoping out a body to keep him warm that night and won’t be upset come the morning when he leaves. “You keep telling yourself that. Now go away— you’re ruining my vibes.”

Jo snorts. “Doesn’t look like you’ve had a lot of trouble up to this point. I’m just surprised you could pull yourself away.”

Dean frowns. “What do you mean?”

Jo gives him a skeptical look. “Um, the hickies? Dean, you’re practically decorated in them.”

A hand shoots up to cover his neck, as though he’d be able to feel the apparent bruising. “What?”

Now Jo looks concerned. “You really have no idea?”

“No, Jo, I don’t,” he snaps. He groans; no wonder he’d only been getting passing glances before everyone turned away.

Jo looks like she wants to laugh, she’s biting her lips so hard. “Well, at least we know _someone’s_ getting lucky tonight.”

A sudden dark pit opens up in Dean’s stomach, and he feels irrationally sick with jealousy.

It’s still a new thing, which is why it took until Dean was a senior in high school to learn about it, but there are cases popping up all over the world about people who have reported bruising that they don’t remember happening resulting from another person receiving bruising, whether self-inflicted or otherwise. _Soulmates,_ they’re called.

Dean doesn’t really buy into the whole “soulmate” thing – that there’s a single person out there made just for him or whatever – but he can’t help the warm feeling he gets when he lets himself imagine that it’s true, that there might be someone out there somewhere who wouldn’t mind putting up with him for the rest of their lives.

Someone who’s apparently fairing a lot better than Dean is with the whole getting laid thing at this particular point in time.

Mood thoroughly ruined – and seriously, he shouldn’t be feeling like he’s been cheated on; it’s just _stupid_ – Dean downs the last of his spiked punch and tosses the cup away, figuring he’s probably better off sleeping off the impending hangover as soon as possible. He’s got an early class, anyway.

 

 

Dean frowns at his reflection, anger and worry filling his chest as he pokes at the blooming mark on his cheek. He’s got several along his arms that look like handprints, and even a couple on his chest, large enough that they look like shoe marks. His stomach rolls unpleasantly, and he bites his lip, swallowing heavily.

Sighing in frustration, he leaves his bathroom and goes to his closet, pulling out a sweater. It’s the beginning of June, and summer is coming into full swing, but he doesn’t feel like drawing pitying glances from random strangers today. There’s not much he can do about the one on his cheek, but he figures his frown is intimidating and off-putting enough that people will leave him alone if he scowls hard enough.

He takes his laptop and bag of papers to grade and heads out, deciding to take the fifteen-minute walk to the café on the corner. He nods to Gabe behind the counter, the owner giving him a raised eyebrow but leaving him be; that’s the great thing about Gabe – he worries, but he’s not in your face about it, and Dean may not always like his personality, but he does appreciate the genuine care.

Dean sets up camp at the table in the back – uncreatively dubbed The Grading Table because of how often he’s there to mark up essays – and goes to order his usual slice of apple-pecan pie and large caramel macchiato. Gabe gives him an extra squirt of whipped cream and tells him the first slice is on the house, and Dean appreciates him even more.

Halfway through his second slice of pie a couple hours later, the bell above the door dings, and Dean reflexively glances up at the sound. He pauses with his next bite partway to his mouth, watching as a man makes his way up to the counter, hunched in on himself and looking around timidly.

It’s not his dark, wild hair or bright blue eyes that catch Dean’s attention – it’s the large bruise on his left cheek, the same place and size as the one on Dean’s, though it’s not until he’s handing over money for his order and his sleeve slides up, showing off the wrap of bruises around his wrist – just like Dean woke up to a couple days ago, and obviously from someone manhandling him roughly – that Dean drops his fork and is halfway out of his seat before he comes back to himself. The man doesn’t take any notice, head down and curled in on himself, but Gabe does, and he gives Dean a pointed look. Dean lifts his own sleeve, and Gabe’s jaw clenches.

The door to the café opens again, and another man sweeps in, heading purposefully for the dark-haired man at the counter. “Castiel,” he calls, and the man flinches as if struck, turning his body reluctantly towards the newcomer.

Dean feels his entire body tense as he watches the interaction between the absolute asshat that just walked in and the dark-haired man – Castiel. The man speaks forcefully and demeaning, berating Castiel for not listening and taking too long, and Castiel takes it silently, hunching even further into himself. The patrons in the café have taken notice, but no one has moved, and Dean doesn’t know why he’s still stuck to his spot, just observing.

“You’re so stupid, Castiel,” the man seethes, raising his hand, and Castiel looks up fearfully. His eyes slide from Asshat to Dean, wide and blue and _scared,_ and Dean is across the room before he even knows what’s happening.

“Hey!” he shouts, and his hand wraps around the douchebag’s wrist as it moves, stopping it a few inches from Castiel’s face. “What the fuck, man?”

Asshat turns his glare on Dean. “Excuse me,” he says icily, “but I don’t think this concerns you. Let go of my arm.”

Dean stands his ground. “Buddy, it started concerning me when you decided it was alright to abuse my soulmate.”

Asshat takes a step back like Dean had struck him, and oh boy, does Dean wish he had. Dean stands protectively in front of Castiel; he feels a fist gripping his shirt, and all he wants to do is turn and wrap Castiel, this stranger he doesn’t know, in his arms and keep him safe. He keeps his eyes on the asshole in front of him, though, and lets one hand move behind him, and he sighs in relief when Castiel takes it, giving it a squeeze.

“I suggest you start contacting your lawyers for when I take your ass to court,” Dean growls, and the man straightens, but Dean can see the apprehension in his eyes. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“And don’t come back,” Gabe tacks on, crossing his arms. “This establishment doesn’t condone violence to any of its staff or guests. Consider yourself permanently banned from the premises.”

The guests in the café start murmuring their agreement to Gabe’s statement, and the asshole seems to know he’s got no foot to stand on here. Glaring daggers and retribution at Dean, and with a derisive sneer at Castiel, he turns and strides out without looking back. Dean gives it another few, long seconds before he lets his shoulders relax, the adrenaline leaving him, and turning to the man behind him.

“Hey,” he says gently, and Castiel flinches, but not quite as hard. He glances up from under his lashes, and Dean thinks his eyes are even bluer up close. He smiles as softly and reassuringly as he can. “I’m Dean.”

“Castiel,” Castiel says quietly, almost a mumble, and Dean feels his heart break all over again. He squeezes their hands, still entwined, encouragingly.

“You hungry, Cas?” he asks, and Cas looks up finally, eyes big and wide and grateful. Cas nods timidly, and Dean smiles wider. “Then let’s get you something to eat. You like pie? Gabe makes a pretty mean apple-pecan number. I _highly_ recommend it.”

“You just want more free pie,” Gabe grouses, but there’s a smile on his face. “But hey, when you’re right, you’re right.”

Dean just shrugs and looks at Cas like _what can you do,_ and Cas’ lips quirk up briefly.

“I’d like that, Dean. Thank you.”

“Absolutely, Cas,” Dean grins, and he gently tugs Cas over to his table.

They’ve got a long way to go, Dean thinks as he watches Cas twist the sleeve of his coat in his hands, looking around like he’s waiting for something to happen, flinching when Dean lays a hand on his arm to get his attention, but seeing the genuine gratitude in those blue eyes—

He knows every minute will be worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: [leviathncas](http://deanjimmy.co.vu)


End file.
